


schrödinger's paradox

by jynersq



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-13 23:23:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7142417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jynersq/pseuds/jynersq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or, five times jemma simmons wore leo fitz's clothes. (and one time she gave him something of hers.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	schrödinger's paradox

**one.**

it’s a glorious day.

in fact, jemma can’t remember the last time she was out in the field on a day as fine as this; no matter where she is on the planet, winter always seems to last forever. fitz prefers the cold and rain, but she’s always been a sunshine girl.

she takes her step slowly, almost dragging her feet on the busy sidewalk. there’s a slight breeze and no rush to get back inside. today she’s just surveillance, fitz by her side. they’re leaned up against the rough brick of a shop, looking for all the world like college kids out on spring break; she, in a soft skirt and blouse, he, in jeans and a light jacket. in another life, maybe they are. maybe they could be.

she sweeps her eyes casually down the street one way and back up, blinking in the glare of sunlight off slick black cars.

squinting, she looks down to rummage through her bag for her sunglasses. a moment later, “oh,” she murmurs, dismayed.

from beside her fitz asks “what’s wrong?” casually sweeping the perimeter every few moments.

she frowns. “i left my sunglasses in my room.” she knows exactly where they are, too. those nice, white, square frames, sitting on the edge her dresser. who knows how long they’ll be out here– so much for being prepared.

he looks up, then over at her. wordlessly he slips his own glasses off, passing them to her.

“oh– are you sure?” she asks, surprised.

he nods. “it’s fine. m’not much for glasses, anyway.” 

“your face will burn,” she says, holding them hesitantly.

he shrugs. “it’ll burn anyway,” he says, one side of his mouth quirking up as he surveys the street before them.

“probably true,” she murmurs, slipping them on. they’re a little big, and they slide, and he reaches over to fix them without thinking.

she looks at him in surprise, but his expression is unassuming. without the glasses, she can see his cheeks have already begun to pinken, despite being slathered with lotion before leaving the bus. luck of the scottish. in the sun, his bright blue eyes stand out rather pleasantly against his skin, as though lit up from inside. then:

“earth to simmons,” fitz says, waving a hand a few inches from her face. “you there?” 

she realizes that she has no idea what he’s just said.

“epidermal cells blister and peel when you get a sunburn because of the irreparable dna damage caused by the sun’s ultraviolet radiation,” she blurts out.

fitz blinks. “er. yeah, that’s common knowledge, simmons.”

“yes, but the mechanisms behind it are quite fascinating, if you think about it, really,” she says, a bit too loudly, trying to conceal the strange little quiver in her hands. “if the dna of the skin cells cannot be repaired, then– then cell apoptosis is triggered and the cells are replaced. the body recognizes its damage and irreparably damaged cells essentially kill themselves for the greater good of the whole body.” then, breathless, “am i speaking too loudly? i feel like i’m shouting.”

he gives her a strange look. “are you all right?”

she coughs. “of course.” shaking her head, “i’m sorry, i was lost in thought. what were you saying?”

he mouth quirks up. “i was just saying, it’s not like you to be unprepared.”

“oh!” she laughs, high and breathy. “well, i just don’t know where my head’s at today. i suppose i’m still getting used to working,” she lowers her voice so only he can hear, “in the field.”

he nods. then, “you’re glad we did it though, right? made the change?” he’s hesitant, as though waiting for approval.

“of course!” she says. privately, she thinks it may be a bit too soon to permanently make that call, as they’ve only been field agents for a month or two now. however, she has no reason to be dissatisfied, especially on a day like this.

“yeah, good,” he says, quickly. “me too.”

she starts to reply, but then, over the comms, coulson’s voice: “fitzsimmons, wrap it up. rendezvous in five.”

a little electric thrill runs through her spine. “a new mission, sir?” she asks. fitz raises his eyebrows.

“well, we’ve got reports of floating bodies in rural pennsylvania,” coulson replies. 

“so, yes, then,” fitz adds.

jemma’s eyes widen. “oh, my goodness.” she looks at fitz. “floating bodies!”

“maybe try not to look so excited at the prospect of dead people,” he murmurs, resting a hand on the small of her back, turning her in the direction of the meeting point. 

she bites her lip, trying to rein in her excitement. “right. of course.”

as they walk along the street in the fading afternoon light, she thinks: transformation. the transference of afternoon to evening, lab scientists to field agents. best friends to partners. it’s a dangerous world– even more dangerous than they could have possibly believed when they’d just joined shield. but they have each other.

**two.**

she’s been standing so long she can’t feel her legs. 

she’s been standing so long she’s forgotten she’s standing, tucked against the wall of the hangar. just watching, and waiting. the team is outfitted for action, fluttering around with wires and spray paint and desperation, but she’s standing on broken glass and bullet casings and she just wants to be alone. a pang in her stomach, and she vaguely registers that she hasn’t had food in nearly a day, but her stomach is still in such knots that she doesn’t think she could eat now even if she wanted to.

it’s long past dark, but still jemma watches coulson on top of the plane; for once his suit-jacket off, sleeves rolled up as he paints over the giant bird on in steady, even strokes. may’s been out a few times, to tell him to get down, but each time he’d ignored her, and eventually she’d stopped coming out.

swipe of red across the concrete floor catches her attention, briefly, and then she looks away, bile rising in her throat.

she doesn’t even realize she’s shivering until the jacket hits her shoulders. a field jacket, heavy and comfortingly warm. she smells paper and clean sweat, and she knows it’s him before she even turns around.

“thanks.”

he shrugs, his profile illuminated beside her by the yellow ceiling lights. “you looked cold.”

she tucks her arms into the sleeves. they’re too long, and dangle past her fingertips, but that doesn’t matter. “mm. i didn’t realize.”

“probably because you’re always looking out for everybody else,” he says, not unkindly, looking up at coulson. skye appears in the doorway of the bus for a moment, just a silhouette, then disappears into the interior once more.

jemma looks down, feeling awkward. “well– well, i don’t know.”

he nudges her arm with his. “how’re you holding up?”

she lets out a small, sad laugh, watching the shadows on the opposite wall. “too soon to tell, i think.”

he nods. “it’s just,” he starts, “it’s like, i woke up this morning in one world, thinking one thing, only to have the rug completely pulled out from under me.”

“to say the least.” jemma snorts. a little shiver runs through her, thinking about how close they all came to not making it today. she pulls the jacket tighter around her.

“also,” he continues, “people shooting at me. i’m not sure i’ll ever get used to people shooting at me.”

she sighs. “you’d be a bit out there if you did, i think.”

“fair enough,” he says.

she shifts to stand a little closer to him. remembering how it felt from that hallway, hearing the guns go off and not being able to do a damned thing.

“thank you for coming to get me,” she says, twisting her fingers in the cuffs, and it’s barely a whisper.

he clears his throat, scraping his boot back and forth on the rough floor. once he gathers the courage, he looks back up to her. “well, what else was i going to do?”

“suppose it’d be a bit of a hassle to break in someone new,” she murmurs, cracking a smile.

“of course. that’s exactly what i was thinking.” 

their pinkies brush, and she thinks: symbiosis. the dependence of two different organisms on one another for survival. he grips back. they stand there for a moment, against the wall, two halves of a whole. she squeezes his hand, once, then lets go.

the next morning, she leaves his jacket on his door handle. the next time she passes by, it’s gone.

**three.**

she leaves him in the fall. 

it’s the end of september, the weather just starting to cool, the trees beginning to turn brilliant colors, and he’s still not getting better: so she leaves. cause and effect. skye tries to talk her out of it. may tries to talk her out of it. trip doesn’t say much, just lays a sympathetic hand on her shoulder when they pass in the hall. she doesn’t stay long enough to listen to coulson try to talk her out of it.

in the cab to the airport, she remembers the first time they met. at sixteen she’d been fresh out of graduate school, bright-eyed and wildly naïve. she’d needed someone to keep her feet on the ground, and he’d needed someone to coax him up into the clouds every now and again. he’d been shy and she’d been wonderstruck at her good fortune to have met possibly the one person in six billion who would understand everything she had to say. it had been textbook.

_jemma simmons,_ she’d said, by way of introduction, reaching across the lab bench to shake his hand. unnecessary, perhaps, but also proper.

_i know,_ he’d said, with a nervous smile. clasping her hand, his solid silver watch brushing the inside of her wrist. _i’m fitz. just fitz._

general chemistry textbook, semester one: silver. _ag._ metallic, atomic number 47. in many ways, similar to fitz: often overlooked in favor of gaudier gold, but precious nonetheless. conductive, electric, reflective. catalytic.

she runs her thumb over the slim clasp as the car pulls up to the curb. despite technically being a man’s watch, it fits her perfectly. she’d always teased him about having slender wrists.

it’s not an expensive thing by any means, or especially memorable to anyone outside of herself– it’s scratched in several places, and runs two minutes slow. but she doesn’t care. it’s the only thing of his she has right now. she’d found it while moving boxes a few weeks back. she’d been helping move some of their things from the bunks and storage rooms on the bus to the more permanent sandbox, and she’d found it had fallen behind his dresser. she’s not particularly proud of having taken it, but she has such few things for comfort.

she walks through the airport to her gate, her only luggage a small black suitcase and a heavy heart. it’s a sunny day outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, warm and easy and completely at odds with her mood. she checks the time almost obsessively, reminding herself she’s always going to be two minutes short. and she’s glad she refused offers from the team to accompany her to her flight– she wouldn’t have been able to bear it. in anatomy she’d learned that a quick, clean break is always best.

as the plane finally lifts off, hovering over the most precious places and people she knows, she directs a silent promise to the watch on her wrist to return as soon as she can.

**four.**

on the blue planet, there had been no sun. 

however, it had been a desert climate nonetheless, hot and dry. which means, in practical terms, upon her return: the playground, with its stainless steel and temperature control, is suddenly much colder than she remembers.

this is how she ends up at his door in the middle of a heat wave, dressed in what must be at least three layers and still shivering. 

“hi, sorry to bother you,” she starts off, shifting her weight from foot to foot. arms wrapped around herself. “i, er, can’t seem to find my sweatpants. is there any way i can borrow a pair?”

“never a bother, jem,” fitz says, with a little smile, standing from his desk. “let me check.” then, “you do know it’s upward of thirty degrees celsius out, right?”

she frowns. “not in here, it’s not.”

he rifles through a few overfilled drawers– messy, disorganized, fitz. the familiarity of it, of his room and his furniture and his mess, makes her smile. especially because there’s still a strange sort of distance between them since she’s been back: it feels as though they’re simultaneously closer and farther from one another than they ever have been. 

“here, try these.” he tosses her a pair of red and black plaid, soft and well-worn. “they might be a little big, but you can roll the waistband.”

“ooh, thank you,” she says, gratefully, unfolding them. then, dipping her chin mischievously, “is this your clan’s pattern?”

fitz groans. “all right, give them back.”

grinning, she pulls them on right over her leggings. “too late.” it doesn’t escape her that he hasn’t directly answered the question, though. after a pause, she gasps, “fitz, _is it?”_

he rolls his eyes. “of course not. i just didn’t think it was necessary to dignify that question with a response.”

she laughs, straightening back up. “i suppose that’s fair.” her shirt has gotten rumpled with all the movement, exposing a thin strip of skin along her waist. he reaches over to tug the fabric back down for her. it’s such a very _fitz_ gesture that her heart stutters, and she grows more serious.

when he leans back, her body follows him slightly, without realizing. somewhere in the back of her brain she remembers reading about quantum entanglement, spooky action at a distance. two particles that cannot be fully described without the other, only a complete system when considered together.

jemma studies him like the night before an exam: carefully, with attention to the smaller details. a new freckle here, a stray curl there. sure enough, her eyes land on a thin white scar high on his cheekbone, barely imperceptible except when the tissue catches the gleam of the overhead light.

“wait, what’s this?” she asks, suddenly concerned. her fingers catch his face, turning it toward her. “this is new. i haven’t seen this before.”

“oh, yeah. it was, er.” fitz looks sheepish. “i caught the edge of a knife, that’s all. didn’t really hurt.”

“oh, fitz.” she sighs, dropping her hands from his face. “what am i going to do with you?”

unexpectedly, he breaks into a smile. it’s not quite a grin– just an affectionate thing, soft.

jemma gives him a strange look. “what?”

“nothing.” fitz shakes his head. “it’s just– i missed you, you know. your worrying, and such.”

“i missed you, too,” she says, thinking of her broken, battered phone and all its memory, forgotten somewhere in a lab drawer. _more than you know._ then, “but, luckily for you,” she continues, lighter, “i have returned to my rightful place as fretful best friend, and i’m not going anywhere, ever again. yeah?”

the side of his mouth quirks up. “yeah.”

**five.**

she remembers her first time with a light microscope. seven years old, she’d gotten it for her birthday, and the first thing she’d put under it had been a perfectly crisp leaf– a bright green oak. 

in her hand it had already seemed so uniform and perfect, but when she'd put it under the lense, another world had opened up before her eyes– the rigid rectangles of the cell walls, the stocky green chloroplasts. more complicated, but that much more beautiful, as well. in her work, the parts had always been more significant to her than the whole.

in this moment, watching fitz sleep beside her for the first time in this hotel in bucharest: the same sense of magnitude. of looking at something everyday, something ordinary, and really seeing it for the first time, down to every last detail. only in this case, the whole is more precious than the individual parts. his rumpled hair says: a long day, but a good day. his pink lips say: lovingly touched. 

it's four in the morning and she's wide awake. she should be exhausted, but instead her body hums with energy as they wait for the call from mack, which hasn’t come. she’s perfectly content to sit up in bed and watch the moonlight throw stripes across the carpet in nothing but tangled hair and his cotton button-down. 

“hey,” fitz says, throat scratchy with sleep. she turns her head to look at him and her breath catches unexpectedly in her throat– she’d never thought they’d end up here. she’d always thought they’d end up here. in science there is only objective truth, and it is: she had hoped.

“hey, yourself,” she says, softly. she pinkens faintly, feeling the fabric drift over her tender hips.

“nice shirt,” he says.

she looks down at herself. “oh. yeah, i sort of nicked it.” half-true. she’d thought it was her dress. when she’d found it wasn’t – long-sleeved and much too short – she hadn’t bothered to change. it smells like him, warm and faintly spicy. for a brief, superstitious moment, she wonders if she leaves it on long enough, she might absorb some of his courage.

he gives her a crooked smile, propping himself up on one elbow. “it looks much better on you, anyway.”

she smiles back, pats his cheek. “that’s sweet.”

“it’s true,” he says, leaning in. she can feel his warm breath on her lips.

she hums in appreciation. “i wish we could stay here forever,” she murmurs.

“well,” fitz says, slowly, running a light hand up her side, “i suppose we’ll just have to make do with the time we have.”

“i suppose so,” she says, eyes glimmering in the predawn dark.

“and i think we should start,” he says, fingers nimble on the buttons of her – his – shirt, “right here.”

his shirt is promptly returned to the floor.

**plus one.**

even in the dim light of the cell, jemma can feel fitz’s eyes on her.

they’re huddled in the corner, as far from their kidnappers as they can get. tucked into the shadow, they almost hope that if they’re quiet enough, they’ll simply be forgotten. so far, no luck.

it’s going on twenty-four hours since they were taken from the mission, and jemma’s head throbs from hunger and dehydration. her bones ache from sitting on the concrete floor, and she knows fitz doesn’t fare much better. her only comfort is that, though their hands are tied, they’re close enough to touch. 

“what do you think they want from us?” she whispers to fitz, when the pacing guard is at the far end of the room. thus far, nothing has been said to them, outside of when they were first zip-tied, thrown to the floor, and ordered to shut up, _or else._

fitz shakes his head wearily. “i don’t know. the only thing i can think is that we haven’t been killed yet because we’re being held for ransom.”

she frowns. “you think they’re extorting shield?”

he nods. “who else?”

she gives a sad little laugh, leaning her head into his shoulder. “well, do they know we’re expendable?”

“don’t say that,” he says, pressing his lips to the crown of her head. “we’re not expendable. someone will come for us.”

“it’s just– we’ve been talking about retiring for years, but we always get roped into something new,” jemma says, softly. “and every time we go on a mission, the odds are greater that we won’t come back.” she sighs. “i’m want to settle down, fitz.”

he looks down at her. “i know you do. i do too.”

“hey, you two. quiet.”

“this is our last one,” fitz whispers, barely audible. “i promise.”

“what did i say?” the man inclines his head in fitz’s direction. “take this one. split them up.”

jemma strains against her zipties. “over my dead body,” she grinds out, attempting to shift in protectively front of fitz, as he does the same for her. the result is that they simply bump shoulders.

“that can be arranged,” one of the guards chuckles. then, “hey, knock him around, a little. just so shield knows we’re serious.”

out of the corner of her eye, she sees one soldier cross the room and knows their time is running short. so she turns, crushes her mouth to fitz’s, tasting blood and iron. she runs her tongue over his split lip, feeling him shudder. if she could touch his face one more time, she would.

the ties are tight, but she manages to slip her ring, a plain silver circle, onto his littlest finger. he darts his head up to look her in the eyes.

“jemma…”

“i love you,” she says, low and harsh.

he nods. “i’ll see you soon.”

and then he’s yanked away by zip-tied wrists.

“your turn, english,” the next guard says, leaning in close, leering.

jemma spits in his face, a bloody thing. he yanks her by her ponytail, so hard that her eyes water. she hears fitz shout her name, and manages what she hopes is a reassuring smile.

“keep it safe for me,” she says, lifting her chin. he struggles forward, trying to get to her, but is stopped.

then, a blow to the back of her head, and everything goes black. 

–––––

they don’t bury him, because there’s never a body to put in the ground.

she tries not to give up hope, she really does– because she knows he wouldn’t. he didn’t. but she does. it takes months, nearly a year, in fact, but she does. she’d been so expectant, when she’d woken up in the cold light of the medbay, may’s drawn face hovering above her. _we can’t find fitz._ she’d been deeply concerned but not _worried,_ because either he always turned up, or she did. she’d firmly – foolishly – believed that no separation was permanent, because they’d always found their way back together, by land or by sea.

it’s not that she stops looking– it’s just that she stops expecting to find him. she hopes he wouldn’t be disappointed in her.

she talks to him from under the massive oak tree in their favorite park, because somehow she feels closest to him there. it’s the most optimistic place she knows, the only place she can occasionally convince herself to believe in a minute he’ll turn the corner and plop down next to her. 

but, really, she’s known for some time that this could only end one way: one or both of them in the ground. and fitz sure as hell wasn’t going to let it be her. the only thing to do now is adjust.

“you finally got what you wanted, i suppose,” she says, scraping at a stray leaf with her boot. it’s fall, it’s cold, and it’s the last day she’ll come out here, which makes this goodbye. “i hope you’re–” she swipes angrily at her eyes. “i hope you’re happy.”

she slips the watch off her wrist, leaves it there in the mud. it is an age-old challenge: daring god, if he exists. either way, nature assures that one day it will find its way back to fitz.

–––––

he comes back on a sunday, the lord’s day, and she couldn’t be more angry if she tried. 

she’s washing a dish– dish, singular, because there is only one person living in the house anymore. thus, more in the cabinet are unnecessary at best, and at worst, painful. the rest are in storage.

she’s standing at the kitchen sink when she hears the front door creak open and whips around, and there he is. standing there in rumpled clothes, with a crooked expression.

“hey, jem,” fitz says, sheepish, arms hanging by his sides. “i’m back.”

she throws a mug at the wall and then slides to the floor. the porcelain hits the plaster and shatters, leaves a dent as big as a fist. with her arms around her knees, she shudders. “they told me you were dead.”

slowly, he gets down on his knees, too. he knows better than to get close just yet, though; instead, he begins piling up chunks of porcelain with his bare hands, collecting the larger pieces so they won’t step on them later.

“don’t,” jemma says, sharply. “leave it.”

“jemma, please,” his voice is careful, apologetic. “if you would let me explain–”

“i said, _don’t,_ ” she interrupts. then, “what if i got rid of all your clothes?”

he blinks, rocking back on his heels. “what?”

“what if i got rid of all your clothes?” she repeats. “what if all your things are in storage? donated? you seem to think you can just _waltz_ back in here and pick up your life as though nothing happened, but what if i couldn’t stand to look at your things, and– and i–” she stops, hiccups. her eyes are bright with hurt.

“well, did you?” he asks, after a pause.

she just stares at him, for once completely unreadable.

then, “well, things are just things,” he says, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “i can get new clothes.” in a lighter tone, trying to soften her, “as for my notes, well, i can’t as easily replace those, but.” he trails off.

“you don’t know a damn thing,” jemma says, brokenly, watching her hands.

“er,” he says, looking down as well. “probably true.” he does know, however, one thing: she’d never touch a paper on his desk, especially not if she thought something had happened to him.  
as for him: he doesn’t know much. he doesn’t remember much, except waking up in a foreign country, alone, with nothing to his name and no way to contact his loved ones. by the time he had had access to a phone, it’d been too long an absence to remedy with a simple call.

after a pause, he asks, “did shield at least pay the ransom?”

“don’t joke about that!” she hisses. “for your information, yes, they did.”

“did you think about what it would be like for me?” she asks, low. “did it occur to you at all that i would believe you were dead?”

“jem, i swear, i didn’t know,” he starts, earnestly, “no one would tell me anything–”

she stands, abruptly. he jumps up as well, looking terribly guilty.

“i think you should go,” she says, stiffly.

“wait– wait.” he scrambles over to her. taking a deep breath, “if it’s what you want, i’ll go. but first–” she flinches when he takes her cold hand in his. “i believe this is yours,” he says, with a self-deprecating little smile. cradling her hand in his, he carefully places a small silver band in the center of her palm. 

her ring. her heart stutters and instinctively she closes her hand around it, testing its weight. she curls her fist around it so tightly that its grooves dig into her palm.

fitz drops her hand but doesn’t step back. her stony expression falters, giving way to something much more vulnerable.

she slams her mouth into his, kisses him almost cruelly. her fingers clutch painfully at the nape of his neck.

fitz stumbles back, the doorframe stopping their bodies. the gravitational force between them slows time to an agonizing halt, and somewhere in a fuzzily cognizant region of his brain, he thinks that perhaps he has fully understood schrödinger’s paradox: what it is to be both alive and dead.

when he breaks it off, she makes a small noise of disappointment. he steps back, and it’s easily the most difficult thing he’s ever done, untangling himself from her.

“i should go,” he says, looking down. in some sense he had thought coming home would mean simply picking back up where they had left off, but that had been foolish. he had been gone months. she was devastated, maybe even starting to heal, and then he had come back and trampled all over it. not simply reckless, but thoughtless as well. his chest grows tight, thinking about the magnitude of her suffering. he shakes his head. “i really– i should go.”

he starts to turn away, but she grabs his hands. “fitz, wait.” 

he stops, unable to look her in the eyes. “jemma, really–”

it’s her turn to stumble over her words. when she pulls him close again, he can’t bear to resist. “i didn’t mean it,” she says, pressing her mouth to his neck, his cheek, his brow. “i didn’t mean it. i’m sorry. i didn’t mean it, please don’t go.”

the familiar absurdity of her apologizing for something not at all her fault isn’t lost on him, but he can’t seem to get his brain to connect any particular thoughts in a coherent string. “i’m the one who’s sorry,” is all he says, into her hair.

they stand there for a long time, clutching one another. she inhales his entire presence, relief and trembling caution; he breathes her in, sharp grief and sweet hope in equal measure. when he finally leans down to kiss her again, she feels his own silver band touch the back of her neck, and closes her eyes.

everything is back where it belongs.

–––––

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed this. as always, commentary and constructive criticism are very much appreciated, if you can spare the time. ♥


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